


Champagne Toast

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BLUDLAY, Champagne, Crack, Drunk!Croft, Drunkenness, I am your roads, M/M, Phone Sex, Pierce Brosnan looks like a squirrel, Reggie - Freeform, Scrabble, crackier, crackiest, good god man, pissed, polka dotted travel umbrella, pure silliness, the noises tortoises make
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy Holidays to all the folks who follow me on Tumblr, and wanted my champagne ficcery posted somewhere all together.  Mycroft and Lestrade and pink champagne, ahoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft buys a bar.

**Author's Note:**

> Alcohol is serious business. Ficcery is serious business.
> 
> The following is an experiment into the combining of these two very serious businesses.

*********

Mycroft was holding the menu with two fingers, lips pulled back in a grimace.  ”Ugh, isn’t it a law that these things have to come with calorie counts?”

“Is it?” John asked, looking at Greg.  

Greg was staring at Sherlock.  “How do you do that?” he asked, slurring only a bit.

Sherlock didn’t lift his head up from the bar.  “Do what.”

“Doesn’t your face get squished?”

“Look, it’s eleven fifty-seven, and in three minutes it’s a brand new day and a brand new two thousand calories to waste on your goddamn delicious Godiva martinis,” Mycroft snarled at the bartender, “but I need something now and it has to be under fifty calories.  I can feel my toes.  I don’t want to feel my toes.  They’re cramped.”

The bartender was unimpressed.  “Would you like some water?”

“Do you know who I am?” Mycroft demanded, trying to stand.  John grabbed the back of his jacket and kept him from falling over.  “I am your government!  I am your roads!  I am your country!”

“He’s got a direct line to the Queen, mate,” Greg piped up from where he was holding Sherlock’s head up by the curls.  Sherlock didn’t complain until Greg put his head back down on the bar, and it was muffled so no one paid any attention.  “You should listen to him.  He can have you warehoused.  But without the blow job.”

“I am your GOD!” Mycroft roared, and looked at Sherlock.  “Good god, man, get a hold of yourself.  John, take him home.  He’s pissed.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s pissed,” John muttered, but lifted Sherlock’s head carefully.

Sherlock glared at him mournfully.  “Lestrade bumped my nose.  Is it broken?”

“It’s not broken, no.”

“Are you sure?”

“Come on, Mycroft,” Greg said, lurching around them to lean heavily on the irate official.  “It’s two more minutes.  You won’t like diet martinis, anyway.  Wait it out; there’s a love.”

“Oh yes?” Mycroft said, voice suddenly low and throaty.  “Will you make it worth my while, Inspector?”

“There are stiff penalties for public sex, you know,” Greg told him.

“Stiff, you say?”

“Please take me home,” Sherlock begged John.

*********

Mycroft didn’t know the words to Toxic.  This was made obvious when he finally stopped trying to get the microphone away from Greg and concentrated on sucking on his neck instead.  
   
“I’m addicted to you, don’t you know that you’re toxic?” Greg sang, sliding his free hand into Mycroft’s hair.  
   
“I’m never doing this again,” John told Sherlock, who was watching the stage with a horrified expression.  
   
“Tell me I’m hallucinating this,” Sherlock said, his face twisted into a spectacular wince.  
   
*********  
   
“And the Princess Louise was the last one,” Mycroft told him, “so after 1939, pffft, so much for Sir Claughton!”  
   
“What are you talking about?” John asked, looking to Sherlock for help.  Sherlock, on the other hand, was looking to the bartender for help and signaling for something stronger than his appletini.  “Oh no.  No, no; no more for you.”  
   
“You’re so cute when you talk trains,” Greg said, and Mycroft beamed at him.  
   
*********  
   
“Daniel Craig was a much sexier James Bond,” Greg said, and Mycroft briefly considered smashing his glass on the bar.  
   
“Daniel Craig deserves a few testicle beatings,” he snapped.  “Pierce Brosnan is fierce.”  
   
“Pierce Brosnan looks like a squirrel!”  
   
*********  
   
“No,” Anthea said, her hand over Mycroft’s mouth.  “That is not appropriate, sir.”  
   
“I can wager what I like,” Mycroft mumbled from behind her hand.  “I can win this game!”  
   
“Not with that hand,” Greg told him, leaning over to have a look.  
   
“You cannot wager sensitive material, sir,” Anthea said calmly.  “It’s time to go home.”  A few men in black were approaching the table, and their poker partners were starting to look nervous.    
   
Greg sighed.  “Do we have to go home?”  
   
Anthea leveled an exasperated glare at him.  “Would you prefer a drunk tank?”

*********

John woke up abruptly as his phone started to play Avril Lavigne’s song Girlfriend.  He didn’t know who had changed the ring tone yet, or how, but when he found out there would be hell to pay.  “Hello?”   
   
“John, help!  I think I’m having a heart attack,” Mycroft whispered into the phone.  Well, stage-whispered, really.  It was quite loud.  
   
John looked at his alarm clock.  “Are you still in the bar?”  
   
“Don’t be silly.  I’m at home.  The bar is closed.  It’s four AM.”  
   
“And you think you’re having a heart attack,” John said, sitting up and rubbing at his face.  Sherlock grumbled as he moved, rolling off of John’s feet.  
   
“I can’t feel my arm,” Mycroft told him, his tone very serious.    
   
“Yeah, all right.” John sighed.  “Does your chest hurt?”  
   
“No.  It’s just the arm.  Greg, darling, move.  Greg.  Greg, wake up.”  
   
“Greg is with you?” John said, looking at the clock again.  “Have him drive you to the A&E.”  
   
“I can’t wake him up.  And I can’t move; he’s sleeping on my arm.”  
   
John stared blankly at the far wall.  “The same arm you can’t feel?”  
   
“Yes.”  Mycroft sounded very worried.  “Greg.  Greg!”  
   
“Mycroft.  I think your arm’s asleep.”  
   
“No, it’s Greg who’s asleep!  Greg, wake up!”  
   
John could hear, very faintly, the sound of Greg telling Mycroft to shut the hell up.  
   
“Oh, that’s wonderful.  When I’m dead I hope you remember that that’s the last thing you said to me,” Mycroft said.  “I should make you sleep on the sofa.”  
   
“Mycroft, pull your arm out from under him and go back to bed,” John said.

*********


	2. Drunken perverted Scrabble

*********

THE RULES OF DRUNKEN PERVERTED SCRABBLE

you can only write it if it’s dirty.*  
   
*explanations are a must for why it is dirty if the word is challenged; explanation must be accepted by all players.  
   
approximate spelling is fine.*  
   
*text speech is fine.  
   
the person with the most points at any point in the game gets to choose the next set of drinks.*  
   
*even if it’s water.  
   
double letter score = opponent(s) must take a drink.  
   
triple letter score = opponent(s) must take a drink and lick the rim of the glass.  
   
double word score = opponent(s) must unzip, unbutton, or loosen something, or lose an accessory.  
   
triple word score = opponent(s) must remove a major article of clothing.  
   
use all seven words = opponent(s) must negotiate a forfeit.  
   
MOST IMPORTANT RULE = enthusiastic consent.

*********

Greg’s expression was priceless.  “You did not just write analsex on this board and pretend it’s a real word.”  
   
“I explained the rules several times,” Mycroft said severely.  “Drunken Perverted Scrabble allows for anything dirty.  And since that was a triple word score, please remove your trousers.”

*********

“These rules,” Greg said, pointing at John and nearly falling on top of him, “are sacro—sancra?  Sacred.  Fuck.  Moses brought them down from the mountain.”

“You’re drunk,” John said.  Sherlock snorted.

“We were playing before you came,” Greg said with a shrug.  ”Oh, I said came.  Do I get points?”

Mycroft was examining his umbrella and grinning smugly.

*********

“Why are all your words things like whips?” Greg asked, staring at the board.

Anthea shrugged.

Greg turned to Mycroft.  ”What is CBT?” 

“You’re going to have to have a few more before I tell you that,” Mycroft said.

*********

“I,” Greg said, leaning over the board and grinning hugely at Mycroft, “have two blank tiles.”

“But do you have the mental acuity to write anything with them?” Mycroft asked.

Greg turned to John and said, “I beg your pardon.”  Then he put down the tiles L, E, and blank to connect to an S, and then F, U, blank, and K.  ”Ahem.”

Sherlock’s face was a sickly green.

*********

“Why aren’t you playing?” Greg asked Sherlock, gesturing with his drink.  Scotch slopped onto his bare legs and he said, “Oh, fuck.”

“This game is asinine,” Sherlock snarled.   
“Does he get points?” Greg asked Mycroft, who was smiling broadly.

*********

“What happens when we run out of letters?” Greg asked, pouting at the empty bag.  John and Mycroft shared a look.

“That depends on what you want to happen,” Mycroft said finally.

Greg bit his lip, thinking.  “Orgy?”

Sherlock stood up.  “We are leaving,” he told John in a low, frantic tone.

“No, I’m going to stay,” John said.  “I want to see where this is going.”

Sherlock made a small sound of horror and despair.   
*********

Anthea put down her seven letters (B, L, U, D, L, A, Y) with only the slightest eyebrow raise.

“Oh, that’s… that would be… blood play?” Greg said, squinting at the board.  Mycroft was staring at her hard.  “That’s.  That’s a thing?”

“I’d like a kiss, if that’s all right,” she said, reaching out and running her index finger over Greg’s lower lip. 

“We’re never playing with you again,” Mycroft said.

*********

Greg pointed at Sherlock.  “You have the most points.  You get to say what we drink.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate.  “Poison.”

*********

John rolled his eyes.  “Sherlock, you’re not even playing.  You don’t have to stay.”

“If you have sex with my brother, I will never speak to you again,” Sherlock said, twisting his hands around each other.

“Sherlock, for the love of all that is good and holy,” John said, his voice low but fervent.  “I do not want to have sex with your brother.  I just want to see Lestrade naked.  All right?”

Sherlock looked confused.  “But Mycroft’s going to win.  He doesn’t share, John.”

John shrugged.  “He’s down to his pants, Sherlock.  All I have to do is get a triple word score, or a seven letter bonus.”

“And then we can go home?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

John nodded.  “I promise.”

*********

“This,” Mycroft said thunderously, “is cheating.”

“There are no rules against wingmen,” Sherlock said, leaning over John’s shoulder.

“Vesicle,” Greg sounded out with difficulty from V,E,S,C,L.  “What is vesicle?”

“That doesn’t count,” Mycroft snarled.  “Sherlock is cheating.”

“That’s a thing in the penis, right?” Greg asked John.

“Pants, Greg,” John said, smiling sweetly.

*********

Mycroft tucked Greg into the dressing gown with fussy precision.  “No more Drunken Perverted Scrabble with other people.”

“Oh, but it’s fun!” Greg protested.  “John had some great words.”

Mycroft scowled.  “John was just trying to get you naked.”

Greg frowned.  “That’s the point, though.  Isn’t it?”

“Yes, but.”  Mycroft scowled harder.  “You’re too pretty for John.”

“I don’t know if you’re serious or manipulating me, but I’m perfectly willing to go home with you,” Greg said.

*********

Anthea pouted.  “Very well, sir.”

Mycroft nodded.  “Thank you, Anthea.”

After a long moment of silence, she added, “Jealous prick.”

*********

“But why did you want to see Lestrade naked?” Sherlock asked again.

“Because he’s incredibly attractive,” John said again.

This had been going on for a while.

“But he’s fucking my brother,” Sherlock said, going green again at the thought.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t look,” John said, and sighed.

“But—”

“Wank material, Sherlock,” John said, hoping to end it.

Sherlock only looked more confused.  “But surely there are sites for that!”

*********

And so it ends, with Mycroft taking Lestrade back to his and John being endlessly interrogated by his flatmate, and Anthea finding someone else with whom to play Drunken Perverted Scrabble.  Maybe Sally.  Sally probably beats her, too, by angling for double and triple word scores rather than good words.  It drives Anthea up the wall, because you should be trying for good words, like sadist!  But Sally is content with bra on a double word score, because Anthea has a lot of accessories that need to be removed.

*********


	3. Reggie the One-Eyed Tortoise

*********

Greg paused, stopping just inside his front door.  There were shoes by the wall that were definitely not his.  He didn’t wear expensive leather.  Certainly not expensive leather that was well-kept.

They weren’t Sherlock’s, either.  Greg was used to coming home to find Sherlock lurking about in his flat.  It hadn’t happened since 221B, and John, but Greg wouldn’t be surprised to find Sherlock in his flat again, if only to look through whatever things Greg owned that hadn’t been pawed over already.  He didn’t like to let his knowledge of people grow stale.

Anyway, Sherlock didn’t lock the door behind himself.  Greg shrugged off his coat and hung it in the hall closet, preparing himself mentally for whomever it was lurking about in his home.  Really, whoever it was couldn’t be worse than Sherlock, who had shown up sporadically (and often in the wee hours of the morning) to conduct experiments in his kitchen.

Sherlock hadn’t been much of an imposition, really.  He’d taken over the kitchen, and he’d gone through all of Lestrade’s things, but he didn’t care.  He didn’t judge.  Knowledge for knowledge’s sake.  Possibly he’d blurted out things to John, but John was possibly the most discreet individual Greg knew—well, unless he was talking about Sherlock’s ignorance.  Because, really, the solar system?

So he headed for the sitting room, bracing himself for whatever stray had found its way into his home this time.

The man was tall, noticeable even when seated, and frowning in a distracted way at his phone.  Greg noted the waistcoat and jacket discarded on his chair, and the way the stranger’s feet were tucked between the cushions on his sofa.  

“Hello,” Greg said, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Some tea would be lovely,” the stranger said, and started texting away.

“Right,” Greg said, raising an eyebrow, but went to make the tea.  Sherlock usually asked for tea in the same way—if, by saying “ask,” you didn’t mean “ask” at all.  But Greg liked making tea for his stray people.  Tea was all right.  Tea wasn’t being requested to get coke, or worse.  And Greg didn’t want to explain why he, as a copper, couldn’t procure coke.  They never seemed to understand.

When Greg handed him a mug, the stranger raised his eyebrows without looking up from his phone and asked, “You don’t have china?”

“This isn’t Buckingham Palace; I don’t know that you’ve noticed,” Greg said, and only then noticed the overturned laundry basket.  ”Oi, what’s this?”

“It was staring at me,” the stranger said absently as Greg released Reggie from his prison.

“You can’t break into a man’s flat and basket his tortoise!” he said, shooting a glare at his human stray.  ”Reggie’s been here longer than you; he deserves respect.”

The man looked up from his phone, finally, and fixed Greg with a glare.  ”It tried to mount my foot.”

Greg rolled his eyes.  ”Well, maybe you’ve got a sexy foot.  To a tortoise.  He’s got free run of the place; don’t you dare put a basket on him again.”

The man was disgusted.  ”Have you heard the noises they make?”

“Tortoises have urges, just like anyone else,” Greg snapped, and then sighed. ”Look.  You hungry?”

“No.”

Well, not that different from Sherlock, after all.  ”Right.”

Greg went through the various menus he’d stocked up on during many a lonely year as a copper, then a DC, and then a DI.  He decided on Chinese, and started to dial, only to have his phone snatched from his hand by the sneakiest stray of all strays.  ”Oi!”

“If you must order something, then have the decency to order something edible,” the stranger said, and dialed a number Greg didn’t recognise.  Worse, he replied and placed an order in Chinese—or so Greg assumed, as he didn’t know Chinese, or whatever it was the man was speaking.

“I was ordering for me, and—”

“I’m sure you’ll find it satisfying enough,” the stranger said, handing back the phone.  ”I hope you have cash on you.”

Greg counted to ten silently.  And continued on to fifty.

It wasn’t until the third time his new stray visited that Greg found out his name.

“What has he done now?” the man asked, as Greg stomped into his flat.  ”Tea, please.”

The word was absolutely empty, because it wasn’t a request, but Greg stomped readily into the kitchen and set about making the tea.  

“What has Sherlock done now?” the man asked again, lounging in the doorway of the kitchen, and Greg scowled, noticing that his stray was wearing his, Greg’s, pyjamas.

“Are you staying the night?”

“Tell me what happened, Detective Inspector,” the man sighed, and Greg relented.

“Oh, nothing.  He’s only gone and gotten himself involved in some counterfeiting plot.”  He slammed the kettle onto the burner and felt a bit of satisfaction at his stray’s exaggerated wince.  ”He’s an idiot.”

“Not an idiot; just tactless.”

“Yeah, well—”  Greg caught sight of the overturned laundry basket over his stray’s shoulder.  ”Have you basketed Reggie again?  I told you not to do that!”

“He was staring at me!” the stray protested, and Greg stomped into the sitting room to rescue his tortoise.

“Look here, you,” Greg snarled, petting Reggie’s head, “Reggie’s been with me for four years.  A lot longer than you, all right?  He gets free run of the place.  If he’s staring at you, then you can move.  He can’t open doors.”

The stray tilted his serious ginger head.  ”Then I have free rein?”

“What, you didn’t before?”

“I try not to make assumptions,” the stray sniffed, and Greg laughed aloud.

“What’s barging into my home, then?” he demanded.

“You had no difficulties letting my brother in,” the stray said mildly, and Greg knew.

“All right, Holmes,” he said with a sigh, “what am I to call you?  Because I’d like to damn you at times, and I’d like to differentiate that from when I damn Sherlock.”

“Mycroft,” the stray said, and Greg could see it, suddenly.  The way that Gregson was absolutely a Tobias, and Anderson was never at all a Ross.  This man, tall, ginger, impeccable three piece suits, all undone to sit in his flat and suck up his tea and steal only the chocolate biscuits.  Mycroft.  Mycroft Holmes.

“Mycroft,” he said.  ”Stop basketing Reggie.”

Reggie only had one eye.  Greg couldn’t believe that Mycroft couldn’t find some way to avoid it.

“He’s half-blind,” he protested, rescuing Reggie from a maze constructed of books and magazines.

“That has only made his stare more penetrating,” Mycroft growled.

Reggie had, over four years, earned the run of the flat.  He didn’t chew cords (Greg had taken in more than a few cats and rabbits and even a squirrel who had), he didn’t knock over bins (cats, dogs, and a fox), and he didn’t eat important case files (cats, dogs, rabbits, squirrel, fox, owl, pigeons, and Sherlock—who may or may not have been high at the time).  Greg wasn’t about to let Mycroft dictate what Reggie was allowed to do, or not to do.

“Look here, Holmes,” he said, or started to say, because somewhere in the middle Mycroft tackled him onto the sofa in an attempt to snog him silly.

“What are you doing?” Greg sputtered, pushing Mycroft up.

Mycroft snorted, readjusting his legs so that he was straddling Greg.  ”I thought that would be obvious.”

“Yeah, well.  Maybe if you didn’t use your teeth,” Greg said.

It was incredible.  Mycroft was incredible.  Greg wasn’t in the habit of sleeping with people whom he’d known for only a month—well, to be honest, he wasn’t much in the habit of sleeping with people, because his job had destroyed his social life and he didn’t mind celibacy if fucking in the toilets was the only other option—but Mycroft was making it worth his while.  Sweet pressure on his cock, mouth working with determined precision at a spot on Greg’s throat that made him want to lay back and let anything happen to him, anything at all—

and Mycroft stopped, sitting back so that he wasn’t touching Greg at all, and glared at Reggie.

“No,” Greg gasped, hard enough that he couldn’t exactly focus on what had happened, why everything had stopped.

“It’s watching,” Mycroft accused, and pulled out his phone from under the sofa cushions.

Greg stared at the ceiling for a whole minute before making up his mind.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft said, freezing in the middle of a text.

“Masturbating,” Greg said serenely, grasping himself firmly.  ”If—ah, if you don’t want—to help, that’s your—your lookout.”

Mycroft’s mouth was hanging open.  Greg swallowed a groan and kept going, slow and steady, biting his lip.

“But—you can’t—”

“He’s a goddamned tortoise,” Greg snarled, and then gasped—he hadn’t meant to pinch himself so hard.  ”He’s not, ah, paying attention.”

“But—”  Mycroft bit his own lip, looking torn.  ”Surely we can adjourn to the bedroom?”

“Should’ve—oh,” Greg gasped, “should’ve thought of that before—”

He sucked in a lungful of air and let his head tip back, muscles tensing in his legs, pushing his shirt up to brush his hand over his belly, up to his chest—

And Mycroft gave in, possibly for the first time in his life, and threw himself back on top of Greg.

And neither of them thought of Reggie again until they found him, three hours later, mounting Mycroft’s expensive leather shoe.

*********


	4. Random snippets

*********

Mycroft was not swaying, but he was listing to the right.  “No, I want to be certain I understand this,” he said, listing back to the left.  Greg watched in fascinated silence.  The motion was so slow that he thought he would need a sun dial to time it.  ”You honestly enjoy the feel of flannel pyjamas.  Honestly.  You’re not taking the piss.”

“They’re warm,” Greg said, registering his affront at last.  ”And they’re cheaper than silk.”

“But I offered you silk,” Mycroft said, wagging his finger.  ”I offered!  I did.  I didn’t charge you.  I didn’t say, Gregory, darling, give me five pounds and I’ll give you silk pyjamas.”

“Here, you said piss,” Greg said, grinning widely.

“I know the word!” Mycroft said.  “Taking the piss.  Pissed.  We’re pissed!”

“Yes,” Greg said.  “Here, share that.”

“Oh no,” Mycroft told him, holding the champagne bottle closer.  “You’re pissed.  You can’t have anymore.”

“Oh no,” Greg said, trying mimic his tone.  “You’re pissed!  You said so.  Said we, you did.”

“Yes, but.”  Mycroft furrowed his brow.  “You’re lying down.”

Greg scoffed.  “So?”

“So I can’t give it to you, because you’ll spill.  Yes?  And your head is on my lap, so you’ll spill.  On me!  It would be terrible.”  Mycroft carefully tipped the bottle to pour a bit more champagne into his glass.  It foamed up and he stopped pouring in a hurry, but still spilt a little onto Greg’s upturned face.

“Oi!” Greg said, stealing the bottle as Mycroft tried to bring it away.  “Now you’ve done it.  You did it!  You’re pissed.”

“It’s just a drop,” Mycroft said, and switched his glass to the other hand.  “See now.”  He shifted, bringing his leg up, and leaned down to lick the champagne from Greg’s cheek.  “There.  All cleaned up.”

“You licked me,” Greg complained.

“Could lick you more,” Mycroft offered, “but not if you’re wearing flannel pyjamas.”

“They’re warm,” Greg said again, and tilted his head up as Mycroft’s tongue swiped across his cheek again.

*********

“…I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling the floors of silent seas.”

“Oh my GOD Mycroft SHUT UP.”

“But you said—”

“I said phone sex!  PHONE SEX.”

“But poetry is sexy.  And foreplay—”

“I will hang up, and think about your PA whilst masturbating furiously.”

“I will start a war with Russia.”

“…you’re so lucky I care about world peace.”

“Darling, I’d’ve threatened your football team next.”

“You are so bad this.”

*********

“You can’t be serious,” Mycroft said, his lip curling in disgust.  
   
“Don’t look like that,” Greg told him.  “It’s fine.”  
   
“It is, if I may be pardoned for being blunt, absolutely the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Mycroft said, and stood up.  “Either it goes, or I do.”  
   
Greg looked down at the polka-dotted travel umbrella.  “It’s hardly a contest, but.  It bothers you that much?”  
   
Mycroft’s teeth were bared.  “I am seconds away from calling the MOD.”

*********


	5. That Haunted Video's Back

*********

John Watson didn’t believe in curses, and he didn’t believe in ghosts, and he didn’t jump when his phone rang after watching Molly’s strange rental video (who had video anymore these days? wasn’t it all DVD and Blu-Ray now?) because he’d been expecting it. “Right,” he said into the receiver. “Who’s this?”

There was a pause, and then a curt, cold voice said, “Seven days.”

“Is this Anderson?” John tried, but the other end had already hung up. He turned to Molly and Sally, who were watching him with twin expressions of horror. “What? And who was that, anyway?”

*********

“So you watch the video, and at the end, there’s an eye,” Lestrade said. He looked over another report wearily. “You’re supposed to show it to someone else if you don’t want whatever the curse is to find you.”

“Yeah?” John said, laughing. “So this eye belongs to a ghost that will, presumably, haunt you after seven days?”

“That’s the story,” Lestrade said, and sighed deeply. “Christ, I hate these things. You want to finish this up?”

“So how do you know the story?” John asked, ignoring the question.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Voice mail says I’m on day two.”

*********

“Can I report that I’m being followed?” John asked Lestrade, leaning into his office.

Lestrade was holding up an umbrella. “This yours?”

“No, but if no one claims it, I’ll take it,” John said, looking it over. “Nice.”

“Too nice for a copper,” Lestrade agreed. “Who’s following you?”

John shrugged. “Tall bloke. White, dark hair, wears black--”

“Is one of us taking the piss?” Lestrade interrupted. “I only ask because my peripheral stalker fits your description, except suits. Three piece.”

“Ooh, yours is more posh than mine,” John said, and grinned. “One of us has to be taking the piss.”

*********

“Day three,” John said wearily, slumping into Lestrade’s office.

“Day four,” Lestrade croaked at him. He looked awful. “Thinking of showing the video to Gregson. Got a copy?”

“No, or I would have shown it to someone,” John said. He put his arm over his face. “Texts all night from an unknown number. Asking me to get the milk and make the tea. Some haunting.”

“Listen,” Lestrade said, and handed his phone over.

After listening to the voice message, John handed it back. “I’ll take my texts over lessons on the Oxford comma.”

“My grammar isn’t that appalling,” Lestrade muttered.

*********

Lestrade came ‘round to the surgery on day four for John, day five for him.

“Listen,” he said urgently, handing the phone over.

“My dear Gregory,” the voice message ran, “I would greatly appreciate if you did not attempt to show the video to some other innocent soul. I believe you and I would do well together, and I would prefer not to be denied the pleasure of your acquaintance. Please do not force me to act again.”

“My computer started sparking and smoking,” Lestrade hissed. “And there’s another umbrella in the flat!”

“That is one pushy ghost,” John said.

*********

The worst part was waking up in the night with another nightmare, sweating and shaking, to see the pale face and glittering eyes fade back into shadow like another layer of dreaming torn away, when John knew it wasn’t a dream at all. It was his ghost, his day five, his chance eroding, and there were nicotine patches in the loo and a violin in the sitting room and a riding crop--a riding crop!--in the refrigerator!

“Maybe we’re just going mad,” he said to Lestrade, who was drinking heavily.

A text message popped up on his phone: Wrong!

*********

He had thirteen new text messages, and most of them were telling John to get the milk. His ghost had taken to signing them SH.

“Someone’s taking the piss,” he said. It was day six. Day seven for Lestrade.

“When I find out who it is, I’ll wring their neck,” Lestrade growled. The bruises under his eyes made John wince.

“So what’s the hour?” he asked delicately.

“Eight,” Lestrade said, and put his head down on his desk. “I’m going back to mine and sleeping through it.”

John nodded. “And if your ghost shows?”

Lestrade didn’t look up. “Fuck him.”

*********

At eight, John called Lestrade. The phone didn’t even ring.

He went ‘round to Lestrade’s flat and dug out the spare key Lestrade kept in a potted plant, only to find the way barred by a tall ginger bloke in a three piece suit, wielding an umbrella like a sword.

“I’m afraid Gregory is occupied at present,” he said, smiling insincerely. “I’ll let him know you visited, of course.”

“Who are you?” John challenged. The voice was the same as the one in Lestrade’s voice messages, but oilier in person.

The stranger raised an eloquent eyebrow. “I am Mycroft Holmes.”

*********

He called again the next day--day seven!--but Mycroft answered and let him know in a very pleasant and yet extremely pointed manner that Gregory was not going to be available for consultation for another day or so. So John was left alone the whole day to sit and stew and wait for nine thirty-seven to roll around.

His phone buzzed at eight, and John checked the message: You didn’t get the milk. SH

Why don’t you get the milk? he typed back.

Don’t be an idiot. I’m not even corporeal yet. SH

John turned his phone off.

*********

Nine thirty-seven.

The computer turned itself on and John, who had been making the tea, dropped the kettle.

“Fuck!” he shouted.

His phone turned on, then the telly, then the lamps--

“You didn’t get the milk,” a cold, curt voice said, directly into his ear, and John fell over in his attempt to whirl around and confront the intruder.

The man glared down at him. “How’s that for a welcome?”

“What--” John shut up when the man hauled him back to his feet easily.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “You should finish the tea. Why did you move my violin?”

*********

“Your ghost can’t keep crashing my crime scenes,” Lestrade told John. “Keep him busy, will you?”

“Oh, don’t think he hasn’t told me what yours has gotten up to!” John retorted. “Redesigning the government from the inside.”

“Yeah, well, at least he’s not showing up at your work, telling you how to do your job!”

“Worse! He shows up to ‘check on’ Sherlock, and they get into a big bloody row, and then the power’s out all through the building!”

“Yours got into a row with Anderson! Anderson can’t see or hear him! Do you know how distracting that is?”

*********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written at Nyxe's after the Hallmark Holmes debacle.

**Author's Note:**

> I love you, Tumblr and all my Tumblr peeps!


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